


Consonance

by Elesianne



Series: Fëanorian marriages [1]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Courtship, Developing Relationship, F/M, First Meeting, Happy Ending, Maglor's attempts at courting don't go as well as you'd expect, Music, Pining, Romance, Slow Burn, Some angst, Some light humour, Years of the Trees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-11-14 15:50:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11211252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elesianne/pseuds/Elesianne
Summary: These are the things we know about the sons of Fëanor: they are full of fire, and they do no give up easily. These things hold true with Maglor too, ever since childhood, and apply in love as well as war.A five-part exploration of the relationship that develops between Maglor and his future wife.





	1. PROLOGUE: Dal niente – 'from nothing'

**Author's Note:**

> _**Consonance:** A combination of notes which are in harmony with each other due to the relationship between their frequencies. From Latin consonant- 'sounding together'. [[Source](https://en.oxforddictionaries.com/definition/consonance)]_
> 
> Chapters are named after music terms I picked from the Wikipedia article on dynamics in music. Note on Quenya names [here](http://elesianne.tumblr.com/post/153874978666/tolkien-meta-rambling-the-quenya-names-of-the).
> 
> The first chapter takes place when Makalaurë is very young, just a pre-teen, while Tinweriel is almost of age, so the romance comes in later chapters. The Falmari = those Teleri who came to Aman.

The first emotion Makalaurë ever feels towards Tinweriel is intense irritation.

He has been looking forward to this day for weeks, for today he finally gets to begin studying music under the tutelage of master Curulír, the most famous of Noldorin music tutors, renowned for his unparalleled mastery of singing as well as the new techniques of harping he has developed. He chooses his pupils carefully and never takes on anyone as young as Makalaurë, since he prefers not to have to teach any basics, but Makalaurë's precocious talent and his father's influence have won him a place in Curulír's lessons.

But the renowned master only teaches Makalaurë for a moment, checking how well he moves his fingers on the strings of his little lyre, before he moves on to another pupil and passes Makalaurë on to his assistant.

'This is Tinweriel, Canafinwë', he introduces her to him. 'She has been my student for many years and I trust her skill enough that I let her help with my younger students. She will be teaching you singing and the flute in particular, since they are her truest talents.'

Makalaurë thinks that Tinweriel looks far too young to be a proper teacher. She also looks a little familiar. He asks if she participates in court events.

'Yes I do', she replies, her voice lower than most women's but pleasing enough in Makalaurë's ears. 'My father has the honour of serving in your grandfather's court.'

'What kind of a servant is he?' Makalaurë asks.

Tinweriel's smile hardens. 'He serves king Finwë as one of his councillors, as does my grandfather who has been the king's friend ever since the Great March.'

Makalaurë notes that she doesn't address him as 'my lord' or any other appropriate title. That is acceptable from master Curulír since his great skill and fame earn him respect as much as Makalaurë's princely birth does, but he rather thinks Curulír's assistant should be more respectful. He says nothing about it though, for his mother has taught him to be more polite than he needs to be, but he makes a point of being very formal himself. He thinks he does rather well at it but Tinweriel doesn't take the hint, continuing to address him as an equal or even as a subordinate.

'Focus, Canafinwë', she admonishes him when his attention wanders to the other young people singing or playing in the large hall with high windows and empty walls that is master Curulír's teaching space. 'Close your eyes if you need to.'

'I don't need to', he snaps back. 'You're making me sing scales. I could do it in my sleep.'

'Then do it well awake', she retorts. 'Or are you not used to practising while there are others in the same space playing different music? Is that the problem?'

'I'm used to it', he says and squares his shoulders and sings perfectly everything Tinweriel tells him to. He spots a half-hidden look of admiration in her eyes and tries not to preen too much. This is more like what he's used to.

The admiration doesn't stay long in Tinweriel's eyes, nor does it stop her from driving him hard for hours, testing his skills with different instruments as well as his voice. He knows he does well – well enough that he'd have received praise from his previous music tutor, but when he lays down the flute or stills his fingers on the strings of a lyre or harp, Tinweriel purses her lips and lists all the things he could improve.

'I don't believe I'm that bad', Makalaurë says finally, frustrated, after his performance on five different instruments has been ripped to pieces by Tinweriel's sharp tongue. 'I know I'm not.'

'You're right', Tinweriel replies calmly. 'But because you know already that you're good, I'm not praising you separately for everything. I'd planned to save that for the end of the day. But if you need to hear it now, I will tell you: I have never seen such skill in one of your age and I believe there is much more talent in you just waiting to be unleashed, real power that you can learn to harness and use in song. I think you know all of this already, though, so I don't know why you need to hear it from my lips.'

Makalaurë turns the lyre in his hands, his own small lyre that he takes everywhere with him and protects vigilantly from his younger brothers' literally and metaphorically sticky fingers. He does know that he is gifted and skilful: he hears it constantly from adults around him and sees it in the jealous gazes of his peers. Yet for some reason, it is important that the girl with piercing grey eyes and little silver flowers in her artfully styled hair thinks well of him.

'I heard I'm master Curulír's youngest ever student', he says after a moment. He has been proud of the fact for weeks, and he wore his second-best robes today for this first lesson. He would have dressed in his finest but his mother forbade him, telling him to save those clothes for some important celebration.

Tinweriel smiles at him, just a little bit. 'Yes, he took you on despite your young age but that is the only special treatment you're going to get, no matter that you are a prince.'

Makalaurë raises his chin. 'I don't expect special treatment because I'm a prince.'

'Just because you're so talented, then? Canafinwë, your skills are what brought you here, but now that you are here, you are expected to learn more – to sharpen your talent like a knife's edge. You are good already, better than most will ever be, but I know you can be even better. And you know it too, but that mustn't keep you from doing everything you can to be the best you can. Wasting talent is a greater weakness than having none.'

Makalaurë nods. His father has said the same to him many times, every time he has felt like idling. 'I will work hard, I promise. I just – I've been looking forward to being taught by master Curulír.'

'I understand. I promise you, he will teach you soon. He makes beginning students begin their lessons with me, but he'll give you his attention soon.' Tinweriel's voice is softer now, a breeze rather than a gale. Makalaurë thinks she must be a very good singer, based on how many nuances her speaking voice has. He wishes she would sing so that he'd find out what her singing voice sounds like, whether it is as low and lovely.

'Why haven't I heard you sing before?' he asks her, brows furrowed in puzzlement. 'Or seen you play at the palace. You must do that, if many in your family are members of the court.'

'I usually play the flute when performing as a part of a group', she replies. 'And I have done that at many events at the court. You just haven't noticed me, I think.'

Makalaurë doesn't see how that could be possible.

'And anyway', Tinweriel continues, 'I only recently returned from the coast. I spent several years among the Falmari, learning their music and visiting relatives.'

'You have relatives among the Falmari?' It is surprising, for she looks as Noldorin as anyone in Tirion.

'Rather distant relatives; my mother's mother is one of the Falmari. She met my grandfather when the Noldor helped build Alqualondë. She returned to Tirion with him and brought her children up as Noldor, and I have inherited little from her apart from my love of songs that echo the sea.'

'The sea has an endless number of songs, doesn't it?' Makalaurë has only visited the seashore a few times with his family yet every time he has been loath to leave the sea and the music of the waves and wind.

Tinweriel agrees with him, and he asks her to teach some of the things she learned among the wave-folk.

'One day', she promises. 'Though I think it might do you good to spend some time among them yourself, when you are a little older. They have much to teach.'

'I would like that.' Makalaurë's father thinks little of the Falmari and the skills in which they excel, but Makalaurë knows they surpass the Noldor in mastery of music.

'Can I show you what I like doing best?' he asks Tinweriel. 'I wrote a song – well, not quite a song, more like a series of impressions, when we last visited Alqualondë, me and my family I mean. I have written some words as well, and wrought colours.'

'Colours.' Tinweriel looks intrigued. 'Very well, show me your colours, gold-cleaver.'

Makalaurë ignores the teasing about his mother-name and gathers himself so that he may play with more elegance than he just spoke. He lays down his lyre and moves back to the big harp.

He takes a breath and shuts out Tinweriel with her silver-speckled hair and all the other students and their singing and playing and master Curulír's guiding words and finds the silence within himself that is the place where his music is born.

He fills the silence with waves. Waves of sound, of his voice and the golden sound of the harp that he turns into reflections of Laurelin's distant light on water, then into the water itself, blue and green and black-grey and all the colours in the world, into the turquoise that exists in the world beneath the waves. He makes the waves of sound flow from calm to raging tempest to back to calm, small ripples washing on to the shore, seabirds returning to their nests at the end of the day.

He lets himself rest in that inner silence for a moment after the last echoes of the harp die away. When he emerges, it is into another silence. Everyone else in the room has stopped practising and is staring at him.

Tinweriel breaks the silence. 'You must seek out the guidance of musicians of the Falmari at some point. You have already made sea-music with this song, and they will teach you more, so that you can drown Tirion under waves one day.'

Makalaurë is reminded that though he doesn't redden as riotously as his brother Carnistir, he still blushes on occasion. He can feel heat rising to his cheeks now, at Tinweriel's words and at the gazes of everyone in the room – every single person here older than he is – but there is also a part of him that triumphs at having won everyone's attention.

Tinweriel doesn't allow him to bask in his success for long: soon she is showing him how to improve his harping technique. He doesn't mind her critique so much, though, now that he knows she doesn't find only faults in him.

He doesn't receive proof of the skills of his young teacher until the end of the day, when he finally hears her sing. Master Curulír wants all his students to finish the day's practice by singing the same song but with different interpretations for everyone. He tells Tinweriel to demonstrate, to perform the song with joy.

(Makalaurë is assigned despair. He thinks it is a test, giving such a difficult emotion to the youngest student. He starts planning his performance right away, thinking of things that have caused him to despair during his short life. There aren't many, but he's determined to conquer the challenge.)

His planning is cut short when Tinweriel begins to sing, for it is impossible to imagine despair to even exist when her voice summons so much joy into the room. It makes Makalaurë think of golden, cloudless mornings when he finishes breakfast early to practise in the next room and his family listens and claps and requests songs, and of those days spent on the beach and in the water, running and swimming next to Maitimo…

Tinweriel's singing voice is lovelier even than her speaking voice; it is the silver undersides of the leaves of Telperion, less bright than those of Laurelin but no less beautiful, softer, darker. It is the waves of the sea lapping gently against Makalaurë's skin, holding him afloat and pulling him farther away from the shore at the same time, powerful and fluid. It is well practised yet it is real, reflecting who Tinweriel is rather than hiding it. It makes Makalaurë want to sit still and listen, and it makes him want to raise his voice and join her in song.

He decides he would be happy to listen to it until the breaking of the world.

That night at dinner he bemuses and amuses his family by speaking very little of Curulír whose tutelage he had been looking forward to so much, and instead telling them very much about Curulír's young assistant who kept telling him what he did wrong and then showed him how to do it right.


	2. Marcato – 'pronounced'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Makalaurë is ostentatious and Tinweriel is oblivious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess I should point out that both Makalaurë and Tinweriel are kind of unreliable narrators in their own chapters: we see things filtered through their perceptions, and some things might be a little warped.

Over the years they become friends, or so Tinweriel thinks at least. She moves on from teaching Makalaurë to teaching new, younger students, and eventually spends less time at master Curulír's practices herself, instead practising on her own once she becomes of age and is considered an adult and a competent musician in her own right. Makalaurë joins her in her home sometimes, or more rarely, she goes to his, though there is rarely enough peace in Fëanáro and Nerdanel's house to practise properly.

Curulír believes that a young musician should learn to sing and play music composed by others flawlessly before they expend much time or effort on creating their own songs, so while he doesn't discourage Makalaurë from working on his own compositions and lyrics, he offers little feedback on them. Tinweriel is happy to do it, for she gets bored easily with old songs that she has heard repeated as well as played herself all her life. Makalaurë's compositions, even when immature or unfinished, are fascinating.

She tries not to say it to him too often, in fear that he might get cocky or complacent, but he has a unique gift for creating music that isn't just beautiful or skilful but truly touches people's hearts. Sometimes he loses that quality for a while in favour of chasing technical perfection or experimenting with some new trend, and then Tinweriel will remind him of what is important: putting his own heart's fire into the music.

Makalaurë has become better at listening to criticism over the years. Tinweriel can see that inner fire in his eyes when he nods fiercely and promises to do better, to keep working. His confidence takes a hit when his voice changes and is unstable for a time. Curulír makes him work through it but Tinweriel decides not to point it out when for a time, Makalaurë brings to her only instrumental compositions. She never had to through that particular hardship but can imagine how hard it is to lose command of your voice when that voice is such an fundamental part of who you are.

When Makalaurë's voice settles he cannot hide his delight at its new power, and Tinweriel wryly thinks that it must be only a matter of time before he becomes a little cocky again. But it turns out that while his voice changed and he grew to be almost as tall as Tinweriel he grew in other ways as well, and when he rediscovers his confidence it is of a somewhat quieter and steadier kind.

As he approaches adulthood – Tinweriel observing it safely from what she feels is a position of much greater maturity, though their difference in age is small enough that it will be rendered completely irrelevant in not much time at all – she is glad to see him growing into a man she'll be happy and honoured to be friends with, just as she has been with the boy he used to be. Sharp-tongued but kind, proud but not as arrogant as his father, Makalaurë is good company and a good friend.

She believes he feels the same way about her since he often seeks out her company even when he has no new compositions to share with her, just to spend time and play and sing together. They begin performing duets at less formal events, he on harp and she on flute. Maitimo will sing with his brother sometimes though he often excuses himself, claiming that his voice is not fine enough for their more complicated pieces.

So things are pleasant. Tinweriel has several good friends, Makalaurë among them, and she is steadily winning a name for herself as a reliable, talented performer, and when she feels like attending court functions (which is often, for she has a not-so-secret love of pomp and circumstance as well as dancing) she can do so thanks to her family's position.

She dances with Makalaurë very often. It is only natural, since they are friends and enjoy having a skilled partner who both enjoys moving to the music and does it very well. Tinweriel is even better than Makalaurë, admired for her grace and elegance since she was a child, and thinks that in this, Makalaurë will likely never surpass her. She knows that in music it is just a question of time, and tries not to grieve for it.

Makalaurë's coming of age celebration is a grand affair, if not quite as grand as Maitimo's who was the first grandchild of king Finwë to reach his majority. The highlight of the evening is the premiere of a long and complicated composition of Makalaurë's by a large group of musicians led by the prince himself and including Tinweriel on her beloved flute.

The applause afterwards is deafening, and Tinweriel can see Makalaurë smiling so brightly he is practically glowing. He is ebulliently happy all night, twirling Tinweriel in the air many times when they dance and coaxing his older brother to sing with him late in the evening when everyone has partaken of enough wine to feel loose-limbed and loose-tongued.

Makalaurë is still grinning when he appears beneath Tinweriel's balcony very late. She has arrived home only recently herself and has just taken off her silver circlet and unravelled her complicated hairdo. He serenades her loudly enough that the whole street must hear it. She hadn't noticed him following her from the palace but he must have, and here he is in his new purple robes and golden jewellery, singing with all the power of his formidable voice and accompanying himself on a lyre, declaring his love for her. Bouquets of flowers lie on the grass at his feet.

She thinks it is a jest at first, though Makalaurë's voice isn't as playful as it is when he uses his gift of words to make fun of something or someone. But the words he sings aren't the words of a mocking or mischievous song; they are as earnestly romantic as Makalaurë's tone of voice and the look in his eyes.

He looks up at her in that intent way that he sometimes assumes when he's listening to her explain something – the fiercest look of concentration Tinweriel has ever seen on anyone, like there is nothing else on Arda worth his attention except her – and she hadn't thought much of it before, just that it was a manifestation of his surprisingly strong personality, but now, together with the love song and the flowers, Tinweriel comes to an uncomfortable realisation.

She had thought that they were friends, very good friends, and been content with that, but Makalaurë has clearly been entertaining a wish for more.

She smiled at first when she saw him in the garden under her balcony, but now, realising that this isn't just a game to him, her smile fades. He is still smiling up at her though, clearly enjoying himself. Tinweriel never saw him drinking nearly as much as he did on this night and that must have a part in his relaxed manner. A performer to his core, he doesn't seem to mind that there are people appearing on balconies and windows in neighbouring houses. Tinweriel can also hear her parents stepping out onto their balcony beside hers, and she wants to groan.

It is really not fair of Makalaurë to put her into this position – to not only suddenly declare his love, but to do it so publicly.

Tinweriel schools her face into a neutral expression of appreciation. It is not difficult to look appreciative, for Makalaurë's song is very beautiful. Of course it is. If it was for anyone else she could appreciate even more the artistry in the poetic lyrics and the complicated composition and the skill with which the performance is executed.

(That is not quite true. It would feel strange to listen to Makalaurë, her former pupil whom she still has trouble thinking of as a grown man, singing his heart out to anyone. But it feels even stranger that he is doing it to her.)

Tinweriel doesn't know what to do when the last notes of Makalaurë's song fade into the night. The sudden quiet is startling; Makalaurë doesn't say anything, just reaches out his hand, as if she could grasp it if she wanted even though she is a floor above him.

He has always had a flair for the dramatic. But he also has a good heart and Tinweriel cares for him, if not in the way he now claims to care for her, so in the tense seconds after he reaches out his hand she tries to think of the right thing to do. She has no idea what it is. The etiquette and comportment lessons her noble family put her through have not prepared her for gently turning down a suitor.

 _What a terrible flaw in those lessons_ , she thinks distantly, before snapping out of her thoughts.

'Thank you for your beautiful song. I am honoured', she calls down to Makalaurë, for they are nobility and royalty and there are certain things that are expected. 'I am quite unworthy of such attentions', she improvises, making good use of her vocal training to make sure her voice carries just right to all the curious ears around them.

'Nonsense, fair lady!' singsongs Makalaurë, grinning and waving his arm dramatically. He looks to be thoroughly enjoying himself, as if this were a game after all, or as if he were certain of the reception his declaration will receive. 'Will you come down and give me a kiss?'

Oh, he must be even more drunk than she'd thought. 'I will come down to _talk_ with you, my lord', she tells him, in a tone close to her strict teaching voice.

Makalaurë's grin falters and though Tinweriel knows she doesn't love him the way he just sang to her, it makes her heart ache. Why must he do this, ruin the lovely friendship they'd settled into? Why must he make her break his heart? She doesn't think it will be a very great heartbreak, for he cannot seriously love her, but this is a very unwelcome complication.

She makes her way down to the garden, trying to think of what to say.

Makalaurë looks delighted to see her. 'You are indescribably lovely with your hair down', he declares far too loudly.

'You're making a scene', Tinweriel hisses.

'That was the intention', says Makalaurë and winks. He has never winked at her before; it must be an effect of his inebriation. 'Good to hear I'm succeeding.'

He is bright and beautiful and very, very self-satisfied. Tinweriel is mortified and a little angry at him.

It's not the first time someone is making a scene for her, but it is the first time it's someone she considers a friend. She racks her brains for ways to end the scene without humiliating him too badly. (A little is acceptable. He is embarrassing her as well, after all.)

She says to him, quietly, 'Please go home, Makalaurë. We can discuss this tomorrow when you are feeling more like yourself.'

'What do you mean, more like myself?' Makalaurë bristles at her words.

'You are intoxicated, and you cannot mean what you sang. It was very pretty but it isn't real.'

'I dare say I know best if my feelings are real.' His triumphant mood is gone, irritation and hurt taking its place. 'Why would they not be?'

'You're too young –'

'Younger people have fallen in love and begun courting', he argues. 'I only waited this long because you are a little older than me and I didn't want anyone to make fun of me. And I thought it would be romantic to surprise you.'

'It was certainly very surprising.' Years of friendship make her opt for honesty. 'I don't know what to say, Makalaurë.'

'Say you'll allow me to court you.'

'I can't do that.'

Now Makalaurë truly looks young, like a little boy suddenly denied a treat he'd been expecting. 'Why not?'

'If you truly feel like you said in your song –'

'I do', Makalaurë grinds out.

'– then I cannot give you what you seek from me. I have only friendship to offer, as ever. We have been good friends, haven't we?'

'Yes, we have, and we could be better lovers still. We make such splendid music together, you and I, just imagine what our bodies could –'

She cannot imagine. Will not. 'Stop', she interrupts him. 'Go home, Makalaurë, sleep and think about what you really want. It can't be me.'

He laughs, and his laugh is a perfect sound of disdain. 'Why not, Tinweriel, silver-crowned flautist, a daughter of lords of the Noldor, an heiress of the sea-music of the Falmari? Why could it not be you, a beautiful, accomplished woman I have admired for years?'

'You are mistaking admiration for love.' She closes her eyes, the wounded look in his too much to bear. 'Please go home. Don't make me hurt you more.'

'You don't have to.' His voice is thick now, close to choking with emotion, painful in her ears, and Tinweriel opens her eyes again because she cannot hide from him. 'Give me a chance, Tinweriel. Let me prove the truth of my feelings to you. There is no reason why you couldn't come to love me even if you don't yet.'

Of course there is no reason. He is handsome, well-spoken, kind-hearted under the youthful arrogance and showiness, and he makes music that touches Tinweriel's soul like no one else's. He is one of her best friends.

Yet any more feels impossible. 'I am loath to give up our friendship', she says. 'It has meant much to me. But it has clearly given you the wrong idea of our relationship, so perhaps it is best if we do not see each other for a while.'

Makalaurë's eyes go cold in a way Tinweriel has rarely seen, reminding her of quicksilver in more than one way. 'We play in two different companies together, even without doing any private duets', he reminds her. 'Not to mention seeing each other at court events and elsewhere. You will find it difficult to avoid me.'

'I don't want to avoid you. Just –' _this_ , she wants to say. _What happened here in my family's garden. You singing your love to me until I have no idea what to say. You in your cups and in your best clothes and me with my hair down and my composure lost somewhere in the midst of your words. Can't we go back to the way things were?_ She knows they cannot. She knows she is being unfair. She doesn't know what else to be.

'I know there are some years between us, but you have never treated me as a child like you did just now. On the day I came of age.' Makalaurë has rediscovered his disdain. 'But in the end I think you are the one acting childishly. I wish you a good night, Tinweriel. I will see you soon, and I will not give up on what we have had, even if you are unwilling to grant me the opportunity to show you the worth of more.'

He picks up his lyre from the grass where he had laid it down, probably in hopes of getting to hold her rather than the instrument, and brushes past Tinweriel and out of the garden.

She watches him go and hopes that this will be the end of it but strongly suspects that it won't, for even the gentlest of Fëanáro's sons has much of his unyielding spirit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope to post the next chapter in a week's time.
> 
> Comments always make my day.


	3. Crescendo – 'becoming louder'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Makalaurë and Tinweriel come to an arragement, both believing that they are the more stubborn one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had some trouble writing this third chapter and eventually realised that it was because it needed to be two chapters. So the total chapter count of this fic has been upped to five, with both this and the next chapter from Makalaurë's point of view.

Far from giving up on courting Tinweriel, Makalaurë begins to pursue her with a single-minded determination he has never granted anything but his music. Years ago she told him he needed to work hard to prove his talent true, and he did. He can do the same to make her believe the truth of his feelings, and when she does, perhaps she will give him a chance.

After all, they discovered a strong affinity of spirits between them not long after they met. It seems likely to Makalaurë that if Tinweriel can get over thinking him a little boy, and her denial that they could only ever be friends, she could care for him in a deeper, different manner.

He is convinced that the easy, utterly effortless way they have always sang and played in harmony means that they are meant for more than friendship.

Once he recovers from his inebriation and the subsequent indisposition, he realises that a loud serenade in Tinweriel's garden while her family and neighbours watched on probably wasn't the best way to announce his feelings and intentions. Now that he knows, he will alter his strategy. He cancels the plans he made with some musician friends of his for a public performance in Tinweriel's honour and asks his older brother to help him make a gift for her instead.

Their father has been experimenting with coloured metals lately, so Makalaurë crafts seven colourful roses with Maitimo's help and sends them to Tinweriel together with the sheet music for a song about midsummer flowers.

A day later a messenger brings back the roses, along with a note.

_Makalaurë,_

_the roses are beautiful but please do not make yourself do any crafting for my sake – I know that you would rather keep away from your father's workshop._

_In any case I must return the roses since I do not reciprocate the feelings they represent. I will keep the sheet music and offer my critique the next time we meet, should you wish for it. The ending of the piece was lovely but the beginning was uninspired, not up to your usual standards._

_In friendship_

_Tinweriel_

Makalaurë burns the note and tosses the metal roses into the bottom of a chest.

*

It is he who avoids her for the next week, slipping away quickly from the practice sessions of a company they both belong to. He needs time to think about his next step.

His world shifted when, a few years ago, he gradually realised that he feels more than admiration and friendship towards Tinweriel. It had been an exhilarating, intriguing kind of skewedness that he'd though might would right itself when he told her how he feels, but all that changed is that he feels slightly lost now, and the bright song inside him is fainter.

In the end he sends her a message asking when he can meet her for the critique she offered on his composition. The lacklustre opening has been bothering him too, and she always has good ideas for improvement.

They meet at her house, as usual – Makalaurë's many younger brothers do not make for an environment conducive to any focused work whereas Tinweriel's one older brother is already married and lives elsewhere. Makalaurë brings a bouquet of flowers again, just natural flowers this time, because he wants to bring a reminder of things having changed to this meeting that is otherwise just like a hundred other meetings they have had over the years.

'Don't bother giving or sending them back to me', he says to Tinweriel as soon as he pushes the flowers into her hands and sees her beginning to protest. 'They'll be wilted by the time I get home, so you might just as well put them into water and enjoy them.'

Tinweriel gives him a pointed look, summons a servant and instructs him to put the flowers in her mother's room.

Her comments and critique on his composition are helpful as always. Makalaurë takes note of them and tries not to be insulted or heartbroken that Tinweriel acts a little more formal with him than before, sits with her back very straight and a little farther away from him than usually.

As soon as she runs out of things to say about his composition she rings for a servant again and busies herself with offering him tea, acting beautifully the part of a perfect, polite hostess. Makalaurë would have much preferred it if they'd gone to the garden and sat on the grass and eaten berries straight from a bush like they've often done in the summer. It is a lovely enough day for that.

Still, he supposes he should be grateful that she didn't call for her mother to join them. Even if there is an unpleasant kind of tension between them, at least they are alone.

'We should talk about what we are going to be to each other going forward', he begins, watching Tinweriel closely, seeing her tense.

Before she replies the silence and tension hang in the air between them like drops of condensation about to fall.

'I hoped we would still be friends. You said that we would, on your begetting day, and you came here and we talked just like we used to, so I thought –'

'We haven't been "just like we used to"', Makalaurë interrupts her. 'We used to be easy around each other. Now we have been awkward and odd ever since we stopped talking about my music.'

'If you wanted things to say the same, you shouldn't have serenaded me with a love song', retorts Tinweriel.

Makalaurë bites his tongue and considers his answer. 'If you gave me a chance to be more than a friend, we could have a much more pleasant kind of tension between us.'

'That is impossible, Makalaurë.'

'I still don't understand why it is _utterly_ impossible.' Suddenly he feels cold in the golden-bright room. 'Is there someone else? Did I wait too long?' If she already loves someone else they must have been courting in peculiar secrecy, or Makalaurë would have heard of it.

'There is no one else.'

Tinweriel is as good at lying as she is at other ways of using words with skill, but Makalaurë believes he knows her well enough to know her to speak true now.

'There has never been anyone I was interested in as more than a friend.' Tinweriel gazes out the window pensively. 'Perhaps I was not made for emotions like that.'

Makalaurë knows that there are some people who are very old and have not married, and never even wanted to. Yet even of those people one cannot be sure if they are unable to love, or unwilling, or if they have just not yet met the person to whom their _fëa_ is drawn towards.

Then again love is a mystery truly understood by no one, and all Makalaurë can do is hope and pray and do his best to have even a chance.

'Perhaps', he says. 'But you are not that old yet, you know. Perhaps you just haven't experienced the love one feels for the person one wishes to marry. It may still come.'

'It may', Tinweriel concedes, and Makalaurë is relieved to see she is not being wilfully against everything he says.

'I have a suggestion', he says, for he had managed to think of a plan before coming here. 'Let us stay friends, and once a year – as my begetting day gift each year, you will let me court you for that one day.'

'Do you really want to spend your days of celebration lavishing attention on me?'

'Of course I do.' He groans, and then laughs.

'What is so funny?' Tinweriel asks, looking more mystified than ever.

'I hold on to hope that you feel for me as I do for you, but then you ask something like that, and I know that you don't. You really don't understand.' Makalaurë shakes his head, and laughs more when he sees Tinweriel's eyes darken, her temper flaring up.

'Fine', she says in a voice of steel and silver. 'I will give you one day a year to try to make me understand, and to change my mind. But you should remember that though you are determined and stubborn, I am even more obstinate.'

 _It's not a question of obstinacy_ , Makalaurë wants to say, but in the end he doesn't, because this is another thing she wouldn't understand.

When he leaves he bows to kiss her hand, as a reminder, and then straightens up and looks her in the eyes steadily, reminding her that he is finally as tall as she is, or perhaps standing a little taller now that he has voiced aloud what has been growing in his heart for years.

*

On the morning of his next begetting day Makalaurë delivers Tinweriel a sheaf of beautifully calligraphed poetry and another one of sheet music for the flute, all of it inspired by her beauty and wit. Though he has spent a very long time composing both they feel woefully inadequate, little more than what he might bring her to analyse and critique at any meeting of theirs. But she disliked the public performance of his love song a year ago and thus Makalaurë thinks he should give her something more private that she can read in the quiet of her bedchamber and think upon in peace.

He brings her flowers as well, red roses that are almost purple, vivid and extravagant and beautiful like she is.

She accepts the gifts with all the grace she can muster, which is a great amount for she is a great performer, and her graciousness is almost enough to disperse the awkwardness that has returned with a vengeance after slowly fading away during the year that has passed. He takes her out for a walk and she takes his arm and lets him hold her closer than usual, but the acquaintances they happen to meet appear to see no difference in their demeanour, treating them as the close friends they have been for years.

He claims an inappropriate number of dances with her at the party held in the evening and walks her home at the end of the night. He would kiss her on the cheek as goodbye rather than her hand but when he leans in, she flinches infinitesimally, and all his desire to claim a kiss disappears in the face of that proof, and all he feels is lost again.

It is all intensely frustrating and Makalaurë is grateful that his temper, though it can be fiery, isn't as short as Tyelkormo or Carnistir's. He has patience for things that matter, and time – what is a few years of waiting, if they could have countless years together?

After Tinweriel has gone in he stays in the shadow of a tall tree in front of her house for a moment, gathering himself for the walk home.

He doesn't mean to eavesdrop but doesn't dare to move after hearing voices from the closest window, so he ends up overhearing talk of himself and as they say, eavesdroppers never hear good things about themselves.

Tinweriel is telling her mother Silmien about her day. 'He gave me so much poetry I didn't have time to read it all in the time I was at home between walking with him and the party', she says, sounding tired.

'I saw the sheaf of it before you took it to your room.' There is a smile in the voice of Tinweriel's mother. 'It wasn't the work of one day.'

'It might have been the work of a year', Tinweriel mutters in a voice low enough that Makalaurë has to strain to hear, and then feel shame. 'It was all masterfully written, of course – perfect meter, beautiful imagery, filled with a musicality few could match. But there is _so much of it_. I didn't know what to say when he asked if I liked it.'

'Young men's hearts are fragile, Tinwië', Silmien says very maternally. 'Be kind to him.'

'I am trying', Tinweriel replies, and sighs.

Makalaurë slips away. Even fear of discovery can't make him stay to listen to more of such talk.

 _My heart isn't fragile_ , he thinks rebelliously all the way home, displeased with Silmien and even more with Tinweriel. For the first time he comes close to wishing he hadn't come to feel the way he does about her; his love for her has made his heart sing in joy more often than it has made it ache.

Makalaurë loves loving Tinweriel, and if thinking that his heart is fragile will make her keep giving him chances, let her think so. He will just pretend not to have heard that conversation – it might take him a few days to calm down, but he will, and after all he too is a performer, and not proud to the degree of self-harm like his father.

Not that he has a choice anyway. He grew into loving Tinweriel in a way that is more than friendship in the same manner that he grew into a taller but not very tall body and a much more powerful voice; he grew into them gradually, adjusting along the way, knowing these were all things beoynd his control to choose but his own to accept and embrace. They are all inseparable parts of him now, and it would take much more than gentle rejection of his advances for him to hate a part of who he is, or to wish that it didn't exist.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Update on 20th July:** An old wrist injury is acting up and in order to be in no more pain than I have to, I'm avoiding typing for a while. So the next chapter will take some time to be finished, unfortunately.


	4. Decrescendo – 'growing softer'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years pass, and for one day out of every year, Makalaurë dares to hope for and work for his and Tinweriel's relationship to be more than friendship.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter took ages to write because of travels, wrist problems and various other reasons, but it’s here now. The next chapter is also already written and will be posted some time next week.
> 
> I'd like to gently remind any readers who like their Maglor very kind and rather perfect that I think he has flaws like anyone and doesn't always think only kind thoughts. That said, he does have a good heart that ultimately decides his actions.
> 
> As a reminder so that you can understand the rather lame pun made in this chapter, the name Makalaurë means 'gold-cleaver' (in all likelihood metaphorically).

Though Makalaurë isn't too proud to keep courting Tinweriel despite his initial advances being rejected, he is too proud to admit the rejection publicly. When he feels like writing sad songs about love lost or never gained – and he feels like that rather often– he writes and plays them in the privacy of his own room, or with Maitimo as his audience at most.

When he performs in public songs that encompass all the feelings in the world but heartbreak or fear of heartbreak, they have a little less power than before because they do not reflect all of his heart.

Tinweriel notices this, the slight disconnect between him and what he sings and plays, and reminds him once again that his music is at its best when he puts all of himself into it.

Frustrated with her lack of understanding again, he replies tersely that he cannot sing what is in his heart now, as much for her sake as his own. It silences her very effectively.

He is good enough to be one of the best young musicians anyway, they both know.

On his next begetting day he performs for her one of his sad love songs. He pours himself out to her until the notes in the air are stained crimson with his heart's blood as he tries to wrap her up in his feelings and make her understand and see that he is worth loving.

(For that is the heartbreak he fears most – finding out that he isn't, to that one person whose opinion has mattered so much to him for years.)

By the time he finishes there are tears in her eyes. For a brief moment Makalaurë feels savage pleasure; compared with his two years of suffering, a few tears during a song are very little. But as soon as he identifies the pleasure it is gone, replaced by concern for Tinweriel and regret for making her cry. He wishes he could take those tears away from her and add them to his own that he has indulged in shedding in the dimmer hours of the night while composing songs like this.

He rises from his harp and goes to sit next to her. She lets him envelop her in his arms and he enjoys the warmth they share, until eventually she pulls away and wipes at her eyes and clears her throat.

'I think you placed all the power you've been holding back in that one song', she says. 'I… don't know what else to say.'

She has her own pride, more than he does, and Makalaurë knows that even a confession of being left speechless is irritating to make. He appreciates her honesty.

'You don't need to say anything', he says. 'Just keep it in your heart.'

She lets out a soft little laugh, somewhat grudgingly. 'Whatever happens between us, I don't think I could ever let go of that song.'

When they part at the end of the night it is Tinweriel who looks a little heartbroken, and hesitant like she's thinking of saying something. But though Makalaurë looks at her encouragingly she doesn't say it, and when next they meet she acts as if she never cried from hearing about his love for her.

He makes a point of making her laugh many times in the weeks that follow, though, at least one laugh for every tear he made her shed.

*

Singing another earnest, heart-wrenching song to Tinweriel on another begetting day might be effective but it would also be predictable and boring and doing the easy thing, and Makalaurë has inherited some of his father's perverse unwillingness to do what is expected of him.

He decides to give her a day of fun and laughter instead, so he plans all sorts of amusing entertainments and writes humorous songs at the expense of various dignified people as well as himself and members of his family.

His musical reproduction of the way his newborn twin brothers wail together when they are hungry makes Tinweriel tear up again, this time in laughter. Makalaurë prefers these tears.

The last part of the song is about him hiding in the garden behind rosebushes to avoid having to change and bathe the babies, the task falling to ever-suffering Maitimo instead.

Tinweriel comments that she is glad Makalaurë is able to make fun of himself. 'I suppose you chose your clothes for that as well.'

Confused, Makalaurë looks down at his own clothes. He'd had new robes made for his begetting day as always, and he had been particularly happy with these ones. The shimmering green and blue of the silk match the green tourmalines and dark aquamarines in his circlet, and the deep, brownish gold sash and trimming complement the brighter colours.

'I don't understand what you mean. Don't you like these robes?'

Tinweriel's lips are a thin line, twitching for some reason. 'They are very pretty and well-made, however… didn't you realise that you are dressed exactly like a peacock?' At his astounded look she clarifies, 'The colours  –iridescent blue and green, and bits of gold, all very resplendent…'

'Oh no.' Makalaurë buries his head in his hands. He had wanted to make an impression with his colourful clothes, but _peacock_ hadn't been what he'd aimed for.

Tinweriel pats him on the shoulder and says with laughter in her voice that he makes for a very handsome peacock.

*

The year after the peacock robes Makalaurë dresses a little more simply, both to avoid reminding Tinweriel of his unfortunate sartorial decision and because his robes might get ruined anyway. For he has decided to bring the twins with him – they are now old enough to do more than just cry and sleep, and they are even cuter than they were as newborns.

Tinweriel is not as openly affectionate with babies as some people but she cannot help warming up to Makalaurë's littlest brothers who babble excitedly to her, though some of their sentences make little sense. The four of them sit on the grass in a park, the children crawling all over Makalaurë and Tinweriel while they try to feed them baby-appropriate food.

After the long and sticky meal Tinweriel holds a sleepy Pityafinwë while Makalaurë cleans the mess from Telufinwë's face. When he lifts his gaze to put away the napkin, he sees her looking down at Pityo in her lap, running her fingers softly over the freckles on his plump cheeks and the curls of red hair on his head. There is such a tender look on her face that even though it is exactly what Makalaurë brought the children for, it is almost too much for his heart to contain.

After a moment Tinweriel notices his gaze and her tender smile turns into a mock-stern expression. 'I've been meaning to ask. Makalaurë, are you really using your little brothers to woo me? Have you no shame?'

'Perhaps not, and in any case I don't regret it.' He lifts Telvo in the air, tickling his little belly until he giggles. 'Just look at how adorable they are.'

Tinweriel's mouth curves back into a smile, seemingly despite her best efforts, and she strokes Pityafinwë's down-soft hair again. 'The most adorable babies', she admits. 'But you and I would be unlikely to have red-headed ones, I think, so why would we bother?'

It is another rejection, and it is a joke, and it still makes Makalaurë's heart beat fast.

*

By the fifth time they spend his begetting day together, Makalaurë is growing a little tired. Tired of pretending only friendship every day but for a single day out of every year, tired of playing his truest songs behind closed doors, tired of banishing thoughts of being a fool out of his head.

Most of all he is tired of pretending light-heartedness with Tinweriel, so when they have a quiet moment alone at the end of the night, he initiates a frank conversation with her.

'I have enjoyed our day together', he tells her. 'As I always do. I cannot help hoping for more than one day a year, though. I don't like pretending the rest of the time.'

Tinweriel gives no answer but a not-unkind look for a while, then asks, 'When did you fall in love with me?'

'The first time I heard you sing.'

He cannot understand her exclamation of 'But you were a child!', for many who go on to marry first form a special bond when they are but children.

'We had just met', Tinweriel continues. 'Mere hours ago. How could you love me already then?'

Makalaurë shreds in his hands the blooms that used to make up the crown of flowers he'd worn for the day. 'You did what you are always telling me to do: channelled your self, your heart, into your song, and my heart, though a child's, recognised the beauty and power of yours and loved it.'

Tinweriel searches for a reply again for a while, always quieter and softer on these days of courting than on other days of the year. 'I was older, and your teacher, proving myself more skilled in what is to you the most important thing in the world, and I know I am pretty, so you – admired me and imagined it to be more, and have become stuck on that fancy –'

'You said that when I first confessed five years ago.' Makalaurë brushes petals off his robe, overtaken by exhaustion and yearning for his bed though going home would cut his time with Tinweriel short. It feels like they keep going around in circles, and still they always miss one another. 'All of those things you said are true, of course – you were a better musician, you are very beautiful – but so are my feelings, and after all these years I cannot believe that you still think them a youth's folly.'

The longest silence so far. 'It is easier to tell myself that's all this is', Tinweriel confesses. 'I wrong you when I do it, though. I am sorry, Makalaurë.'

That apology feels a little like Tinweriel's tears did once, a bitter triumph. Makalaurë changes the subject. 'I have a song to perform for you before we say goodnight for a year.'

Without further ado, well aware that his words were unnecessarily melodramatic, he pulls his little lyre from its special pocket in his robe. The song's lyrics are not about Tinweriel but the melody is. It is not so lovelorn that he'd have felt the need to practise it only behind closed doors, but it is emotional enough that his little brothers rolled their eyes when he played it in the family sitting room the night before.

Tinweriel listens attentively as always, and the look in her eyes – for he learned years ago to play and sing the most difficult songs while looking into her eyes – tells him that she understands the message behind the words.

'I want to perform this piece in public', he confesses after finishing performing it just for her. 'It is quite possibly my favourite I have ever composed. I don't want to keep it hidden like it is somehow wrong, a dirty secret.'

'Then you shouldn't.'

'People might guess. That it is about you, in truth.'

Tinweriel picks petals from her own crown of flowers that he made for her. 'It is very possibly my favourite as well. It speaks – it has such grace and power. You shouldn't keep it just for us. I couldn't ask that of you.'

For the sake of the song, Makalaurë is glad that his beloved understands music, and that she still doesn't understand that he would do anything she asked of him.

He performs the song in public soon after. Tinweriel is in the audience and he looks at her again and she looks back, and everything is a little easier after that, a little less tiring. He does not need to pretend quite so much now that people might be beginning to suspect anyway.

*

During the next year Makalaurë has less time for music and even less to spare for private lovelorn songs, for his father insists that he finally gain mastery and formal recognition in one craft at least. Makalaurë has been avoiding this for years and decides that he might as well do it while he is still young. He doesn't dislike the things most of his family is passionate about, he just pours all of his own passion into music so he has little enthusiasm left for creating other things.

He chooses to prove his mastery within the goldsmiths' guild, as he was always better at fine work than large objects or structures.

'And with my name, what could be a more suitable material to work than gold', he jokes at home. The joke goes largely unappreciated – his father thinks jesting too blithe an attitude toward a matter such as this, and Tyelkormo points out that to be truly true to his name he should go work in a goldmine.

Picking up crafting after a near-complete break of several years is hard at first, but once he begins making objects of real beauty he sends them to Tinweriel. He reasons that just sending her gifts discreetly doesn't count as breaking the agreement they have to only court for one day a year.

It seems that Tinweriel disagrees for she sends back gift after gift, no matter how valuable or beautiful. Every time it stings, and soon he stops. He doesn't ask her why she didn't accept the gifts. Whatever her explanation, he thinks it is unlikely to offer him any consolation.

He finishes his final mastery project for the guild a little before his begetting day, and he keeps the set of jewellery he made hidden until that day.

He lays the pieces in Tinweriel's hands then.

'This is very likely the most beautiful thing I will ever make that can be touched', he remarks. 'Since I plan to make music my life's work.'

'I know you did these only to please your family, but they are still lovely.' Tinweriel turns the pieces of jewellery in her hands – an elegant chain of gold, earrings, a bracelet, three rings and an anklet. All are made up of delicate golden links in the shape of wildflowers from the coast, decorated with tiny twinkling gemstones in many soft colours. Makalaurë knows they are not exactly to Tinweriel's taste – she would prefer silver with sparkling dark rubies and sapphires to gold with pastel tones – but he is not a silversmith.

As always he lays all he can do at her feet, and as always she rejects him with kindness.

'You shouldn't give something this valuable to me', she tells him and tries to push the jewellery back to his lap, but he stops her.

'You promised that I could court you for this one day out of the year. You don't get to return my gifts today.'

Tinweriel seems to accept that but her wilfulness makes an appearance as she mutters to herself, 'I prefer silver anyway.'

She doesn't put on any of the jewellery.

They sit in silence for a while. It has become tradition that they spend the last hours of the evening in a secluded corner of the palace gardens. A _lómelindë_ , nightingale, begins its masterful song somewhere in the great golden trees, and both Tinweriel and Makalaurë turn their heads to look for the singer among the lush foliage. But the little bird's plumage is as plain and inconspicuous as its song is remarkable, and its exact perch remains a mystery.

Makalaurë is the first to speak over the nightingale's song. He says softly, 'My brothers told me I should stop courting you. That I'm just making a fool of myself.'

Tinweriel raises her brows. 'Maitimo said that to you?'

'Well, the making a fool of myself part was from Tyelko's mouth, but I could see that Maitimo agreed. And Curufinwë has looked at me for a while now like I've lost all my sense.'

Tinweriel scoffs. 'That one thinks he knows everything there is to know. I hope he gets over it eventually.'

'I doubt it.' Makalaurë's smile is a little fond. 'I told them to stop worrying about me.'

' _I_ worry about you. Makalaurë –' Tinweriel takes his hand; hers is cool and slender. 'I don't want you to be unhappy, and least of all for my sake. Yet you have been, I have seen it like your brothers must have. Perhaps you should choose someone else to court.'

Makalaurë drops her hand and backs away from her, standing up. 'How can you still think it is a choice to make! There is no one else for me but you.'

The words come out even more loudly and dramatically than he'd intended, and he wishes he wasn't perceptive enough to notice that, or that is clearly struggling to maintain a neutral expression rather than scowl at him.

'I know for a fact that the harp-maker's daughter would –' she tries.

'I couldn't care less about her.'

Tinweriel bites her lip, always a sign of her fighting to keep her composure. 'I wish it was a choice', she says in a low voice. 'If it was I would choose you.'

'And I would have chosen you anyway, even if – even if things were still to be as they are.'

Tinweriel's eyes remind Makalaurë of sea mist, soft and grey, so much softer than the sleek silk of her deep blue dress. Salt water isn't far from her eyes, and he wishes that it was.

He sits back down. 'Don't be sad, Tinwië', he tries to comfort her, knowing how tough she is and how much it takes for her to be made vulnerable like this. 'Loving you is still more joy than it is pain.'

They end the night exchanging soft smiles. Though their conversation on this night added more frustration to what Makalaurë was already feeling, he does believe that their yearly day of courting is less awkward every year, and Tinweriel's smiles are more fond, and Makalaurë will take his hope where he can find it.

*

On their seventh day of courting, eight years after Makalaurë first sang out his love, he tells Tinweriel that he is making plans of visiting the Falmari to learn whatever they can teach him of music.

'Finally', is her reply to that. 'I have been meaning to ask why you haven't gone already.'

'I had wished to go together with you, but since that doesn't seem to be happening any time soon –'

'Don't be petty, Makalaurë.' Tinweriel's soft, low voice can be the crack of a whip when she wields it just so. 'Well. I do wish you'll enjoy your time there and don't get too sea-sick when they inevitably take you out on a ship. If you go north of Alqualondë all the way to Pearlseeker's Bay, seek lodging with my cousin Airehíthon. He will show you hospitality if you tell him you're my friend.'

Makalaurë takes his cue from her and answers lightly, 'Thank you, I will. And at least I know how to swim if I fall overboard. My parents taught me well.' His fingers follow the carved figures that decorate his favourite tall harp. They are meeting at his home for once, its rooms empty of brothers thanks to Maitimo who promised Makalaurë to keep them away as a gift for him.

'I am thinking I might stay there for a whole year and come back just in time for my begetting day. To get truly immersed in their way of making music.'

Tinweriel replies that she thinks it's a good idea. 'But if you want to stay longer, you shouldn't come back to Tirion in a year just to see me. We can skip one year, or –' she adds, rolling her eyes at his glower, 'spend two days together the year after. You shouldn't cut your visit short just because of me.'

Makalaurë's jaw clenches at her words. He had hoped that she understood by now that this one day of courting is the most precious day in the year for him.

'Will you play for me?' he asks, changing the subject so abruptly that Tinweriel looks confused for a moment. She might be confused at the request as well, for it has mostly been him playing for her, or the both of them together, on these days spent together.

She seems happy to do it though, playing the difficult piece Makalaurë requests, her fingers as nimble and skilful on the strings of his harp than on the slightly shorter strings of her own instrument at home.

Makalaurë requests another song, a very different kind of piece, and then a third one that is yet another kind of a song.

Then he performs all three himself, one right after the other, striving to play as well as he has ever played or better. Channelling all the power and fire and sorrow in his soul into the music, letting it flow into his fingertips and onto the strings and into the air of his beloved music room, until all around the two of them the air is filled with gold and silver light and the smell of the salt water and the _feeling_ of waves and a deep longing for the open sea, a longing that might or might not be a metaphor for something else.

There is a quiet moment while the sensations brought on by Makalaurë's music quieten and the light in the room dims to normal. Tinweriel always waits for it all to fade until she speaks. 'I said the day I first met you that you had the sea-music already in you. It seems that already before you go to the Falmari, you have been working on strengthening it.'

'I have been trying to become as good as you are. You have inspired me from the day we met.'

'I think you are better now.' As Makalaurë's lips stretch into a wide smile Tinweriel adds wryly, 'At harnessing your passion and power, I mean. You still lack some technical skill that I have.'

'I can practise more. I _will_ ', he promises just like he did on their first meeting, so many years ago now.

'I know.' Her answering smile can hardly be called a smile, it is so wistful. 'Whereas I can never again match the power of your songs, since skill can be learned and power cannot.'

Makalaurë doubts she meant to make it so, but her words and that wistful look have made this another hollow victory.

'Sing with me?' he asks, and they sing together for the last time in a year, for Makalaurë intends to leave very soon. When they make music together it doesn't matter who is the more skilled and whose song holds the most power, because the most important thing is the enjoyment they both derive from doing it together.

Tinweriel's eyes shine as their voices fill the room, twisting around each other and playing and soaring like little birds courting in the sky; he looks into her eyes as she looks into his, and suddenly, for a moment, they are in perfect harmony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! If doing so gave you any enjoyment or entertainment, please leave a comment. I appreciate and adore all comments, even short ones.


	5. Sotto voce – 'unvoiced'

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tinweriel listens to hearts and songs, and finally hears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ACommonAnomaly/RowanBaines did an absolutely stunning set of portraits of Tinweriel, you can check it [here](http://acommonanomaly.tumblr.com/post/163569827753/my-art-for-elesiannes-wonderful-character)!

Tinweriel was relieved when Makalaurë left Tirion but in no time at all she finds herself wishing he hadn't.

He has been gone before, of course, on visits to his mother's relatives near the mansions of Aulë and on the occasionally very long treks his family likes to go on to explore all of the land of Aman. So it is curious that Tinweriel struggles with the knowledge that he will be gone for a whole year. It seems that almost every day something happens she wishes she could tell him about, so that they might laugh together at the foolishness of others or scoff at how someone dressed even more ridiculously than Makalaurë did that time he unintentionally pretended to be a peacock.

No one understands her quicksilver jokes as easily as he does, and no one understands and accepts her as easily as he does. With him she has never felt too loud, too dramatic, too absorbed in her music.

Making and playing music is simply not the same without him, and this is worst of all. No one with nearly as much talent as Makalaurë asks Tinweriel for her opinions on their compositions, and no one is as delightful and skilled a partner in playing or singing or dancing as he is.

And the song they sang together on his begetting day, just before he left – Tinweriel finds herself singing and playing it again and again, though it is not a very remarkable song. She plays it on the harp and the flute and all the other instruments she knows, but she can never reach the heights her and Makalaurë's voices alone took the song to.

She wishes she knew where he was among the Falmari so that she could write to him, but he told her that he intended to roam freely along the coast as his fancy took him, taking full advantage of the freedom of being away from his close-knit family and the expectations that the Noldor have for their princes.

Thinking about him, bare feet buried in the sand and hair tangled by the wind, listening to the waves, makes her want to visit her grandmother's kin again herself.

 _Perhaps Makalaurë and I_ could _go together one day_ , she thinks when almost half of the year has passed, and she imagines them together on the shore, leaving two sets of footprints side by side to be washed away by the ever-rolling waves.

The thought startles her so much that she drops the flute resting in her lap, and decides to talk about it to her closest friend Marildis – closest friend apart from Makalaurë, anyway, for it appears from how much she misses him that she has grown closer to him than anyone.

Marildis is her cousin as well as her friend. They have known each other since birth and aren't afraid to be straightforward and honest with each other, so Tinweriel speaks freely when she next visits her.

'I miss him more than I have ever missed anyone. When he told me he was leaving Tirion I hoped he'd stay long enough to recover from his feelings for me, but soon I found myself wishing he would come home sooner than he promised', Tinweriel tells Marildis. 'And I have been thinking about the last time we sang together, just before he left. It was different from ever before. It has always been easy to find harmony with him, but somehow it felt like… more.'

Marildis continues stitching her mist-fine needle lace without raising her gaze, only murmuring an encouragement for Tinweriel to continue.

'It was like I finally heard his heart in his song. Not all of his spirit, just his heart. Oh, but that is silly, isn't it?' Tinweriel wishes she had something to do with her hands as well, even if anything she makes is shameful compared to Marildis' masterful creations.

' _You_ are silly', says Marildis, knotting the thread then cutting it with her teeth. She points the tiny needle in her hand at Tinweriel before tucking it into a beautifully decorated needle cushion. 'His heart has been in his songs for years whenever you've been there to hear it, most of all on his begetting days. If you have never heard it before, you must have been wilfully deaf.'

'Not wilfully', says Tinweriel, looking at and talking to the orchids on the table in front of her because it is easier than looking at Marildis. 'Not wilfully _and_ consciously, in any case… Oh, cousin, my thoughts are all tangled up and twisted into knots, and my feelings too. Without me noticing they have become a mess I can't unravel.'

She throws herself back on the settee, flailing her arms dramatically but taking care not to upset Marildis' handiwork.

Marildis rolls her eyes at her and notes, not unkindly, 'It has always been easier for you to be convinced of something, to believe things true or false, than to tolerate in-betweens.' She pats Tinweriel's shoulder. 'You are lucky that I am good at unravelling tangled threads. Let us talk more, and perhaps we can arrive at a simple truth that is easier for you to understand.'

When Tinweriel returns home from her cousin's house, her heart is heavier yet it sings.

She settles into waiting, listening to her own heart while she has to wait to hear more of Makalaurë's. She writes new kinds of songs, just for herself, just to see if she'll still like them in a few weeks' time, or a year's.

*

When Makalaurë returns just before his begetting day, Tinweriel gathers her courage – or rather, scolds herself for wanting to be a coward and wait for him to come to her – and goes to see him.

He looks older, dressed in the practical linen breeches and shirt of the Falmari, his hair cut shorter than she has ever seen it. He also looks delighted to see her.

'I am glad that you decided to return to Tirion for your begetting day', she tells him. 'Your family must be happy.'

Makalaurë's eyes sparkle. 'I missed you too, Tinwië', he says gently.

She considers it but decides against pointing out that she didn't quite say that she missed him.

'Well, what did you learn among the sea-elves?' she asks instead.

'I'll show you.'

He plays the same three songs to her that he played a year ago. His performance holds nearly as much power as it did then, and more skill: he has learnt to run his fingers on the strings more smoothly so that they are swift and dextrous at the same time. It is as if his movements are part of the waves he creates.

'I see they taught you harping', says Tinweriel when he finishes. 'Well done, Makalaurë. I can find no fault in your technique anymore.'

'Thank you – though it feels odd not to have your praise followed by criticism.' Makalaurë smiles and sweeps his hair behind his ears; Tinweriel notes that it curls a little now that it barely comes down to his shoulders.

'If you want criticism, I'll tell you that I think you looked better with longer hair.'

'That doesn't work as criticism, it just tells me you've been paying attention to my looks.' Now Makalaurë's smile holds a very small measure of his old arrogance.

Tinweriel scoffs but again she doesn't tell him he's wrong.

They spend his begetting day alone together, riding to the foothills of Taniquetil and wandering in the woods there, singing together in the dappled light and enjoying a little feast in a peaceful meadow.

When they ride back to Tirion for the evening's festivities, Makalaurë tells Tinweriel that he is going to return to Alqualondë soon. 'I still have much to learn and I think it does me good to spend some time on my own, away from my family.'

It is easy for Tinweriel to voice her agreement. Besides his improved harping skills, there is a new steady seriousness and quietness in Makalaurë that she thinks might come from not having to constantly compete with six brothers for space and attention.

'I thought about learning the flute better next', he says. 'But then I realised that I'd rather keep its finer points a mystery, and just enjoy and admire it when you play.'

Tinweriel frowns. 'You could be better than me in just a few years, I'm sure.'

Makalaurë tangles his fingers in his horse's mane, as if to ground himself. 'I don't think I want to be.'

At first she cannot understand it. He has always been so eager to learn and to be the best and famous for it. But then she thinks of his ungrudging generosity towards her over the years – giving her all of his days of celebration, gifting her the final project of his goldsmith mastery course though he knew she wouldn't appreciate it to the fullest, keeping his best songs secret for years because he respected her wish for the complications of their relationship to stay private.

And he really did grow while he was gone, she realises, and the man he is now is even easier to care for than the boy he used to be.

It pricks her pride, more than a little, to know that if he never surpasses her on the flute it is only because he chooses not to, but then again, she has known since the day she met him that he had the potential to surpass her in all ways.

She hopes that she is growing too, learning to accept what he gives freely without thinking it the wrong kind of charity.

Charity is also love, after all, and acceptance is not the same as giving in in a shameful way. Tinweriel is coming to believe that she can accept her feelings and keep her pride.

She keeps stealing glances at Makalaurë as they approach Tirion. Before they reach the gates she asks if he is planning to stay just in Alqualondë this time, but he replies that he plans to explore the coastline as far north as he can, making use of the wilderness skills his parents have taught him to go perhaps farther than anyone has before. A few adventurous Falmari youths have offered to go with him.

'So I don't know how long I'll be away', he says half-apologetically. 'I might be gone for more than a year.'

'Explore as long as you like', Tinweriel says with a smile she doubts manages to mask the uneasy feeling in her that is probably the fear of missing him painfully much. 'But do write me songs of the northern shores and the cold water.'

With the brightest of smiles Makalaurë promises to do so, and later at the ball he twirls her with a wild joy until they are both out of breath and other couples are avoiding them in fear of being trampled.

*

It does end up being over a year before Makalaurë returns from the coast again.

Tinweriel hasn't even heard of his return yet when comes to see her, and he finds her alone in the garden of her family's house. She is supposed to be practising for a forthcoming performance but has ended up playing fanciful little tunes to accompany the trills of mate-seeking birds around her. It is a blindingly bright spring day, warm enough to make baring some skin a pleasure, so she's wearing a short-sleeved dress.

Makalaurë wears a light Telerin-style clothes again, and a solemn expression. He has no instrument with him this time.

As soon as they have greeted each other, Tinweriel points it out. 'You brought no music with you today.'

'I have no words to say how much I missed you, no song either', Makalaurë tells her. 'I hoped so much, after last year, and told myself not to, that I couldn't put it into song. I did write the songs about the northern shores that you requested. I'll play them to you later.'

Tinweriel invites him to sit on the stone bench with her. 'You look well', she says. He does, though his hair is tied back messily, a little longer now but still too short to flow nicely down his back. He smells, very faintly, of sweat and salt water rather than the usual perfumed soap.

She finds she likes the imperfections.

'Thank you.' He hesitates and turns his face into the light, away from her, before continuing. 'I tried to come to see you even sooner but when my family found out that I am staying home for good this time, they made it their business to tell me about everything that has happened so that I can be added to the roster of the representatives of the family again.'

'You are not going back to the Falmari, then?'

'No. I think I learned everything I can for now, and found… what I was looking for.'

Tinweriel worries for a dark moment that he may have been looking for something more than musical skill, _someone_ perhaps, but doesn't ask. She doesn't want to admit how fragile her new-found feelings make her feel. Not everyone is like Makalaurë, willing to openly declare their heart as soon as they begin to think they know what it wants, unafraid of gathering bruises along the way.

She may be more stubborn than he is but he is braver, in some ways at least.

'I am glad you found what you sought', she says, then, for she is glad for any joy or satisfaction he has.

There is a moment of silence. They listen to the birdsong that is even more part of the birds' nature than Tinweriel and Makalaurë's music is of them, though it feels inalienable to them as well.

Makalaurë breaks the silence when it has become so uncomfortable that Tinweriel finds it hard to sit still. He seems even more at peace with quiet than he was the last time they saw each other, but she has always found silences hard to bear.

'I made this for you.' He takes a small pouch from the pocket of his breeches and hands it to her. 'I did one for my mother as well, of pink seashells and gold, but since I know you like purple and silver…'

Seeing him lost for words like this, when he is already quiet and serious, is not slightly satisfying like it used to be. It is painful, and Tinweriel finds herself speaking softly, less sorry than ever that he has brought her a gift. 'Thank you for thinking of me.'

She can feels his surprised gaze on her as she opens the drawstring, and it is no wonder that he should look at her in surprise. She has never thanked him for thinking of her before.

There is a necklace in the pouch: small purple seashells strung on a delicate thread of silver. It is simple, and it is beautiful, and Tinweriel knows that to find even this many purely purple shells Makalaurë would have had to comb the beaches for days. Compared to his earlier gifts this one is simple and inexpensive, but more precious than any other.

'I thought you wouldn't want anything complicated, and anyway, I made it at a small settlement where they didn't have tools or workshops advanced enough for very fine work even if I had dared to attempt it with silver', Makalaurë explains, his gaze now on his hands in his lap, at a loss for what to do with them since he is not holding an instrument for once.

'It is beautiful.' Tinweriel turns the necklace in her hands. It is long enough to go over her head but there is a clasp. Of course there is, so that it can be put on without disturbing an elaborate hairdo – a son of Fëanáro wouldn't take any shortcuts when crafting an item of significance. And Tinweriel is certain that though Makalaurë pretends at nonchalance, there is a world of meaning in the gift.

Makalaurë stands to go. 'You know where to send it back', he says mildly, his back turned already.

Tinweriel slips off the turquoise-decorated choker she's wearing. 'Makalaurë', she calls. 'Would you help me put this necklace on?'

Without waiting for an answer she turns her back to him too and holds up the mass of her long dark hair, twisted into a chignon at her nape and held in place by silver pins.

There is a moment when she can hear nothing but her heart beating fast, and then footsteps, and a gentle hand at her back. 'Are you certain?' Makalaurë asks. 'It isn't even my begetting day.'

He has so few words to give today, and each one of them echoes _his_ heartbeat. Tinweriel thinks she has never heard it so true before as now that it is quiet otherwise, no music but the birdsong around then. Or perhaps it she who is quiet, finally truly listening to what Makalaurë has to tell her of his heart.

'Yes', she tells him in return. 'I am certain.'

Makalaurë takes the necklace from her hand and clasps it around her neck. The little shells feel warm on her skin, and warmer yet is his hand that lingers a moment, brushing down her shoulder blade that the low back of her dress leaves bare.

'I missed you near unbearably', Makalaurë says, his voice very close. Tinweriel feels the breath of the words on her skin and shivers. 'I'll see you soon at one practice or another. Until then, Tinweriel.'

'Until then', she echoes.

He is gone before she stops shivering and turns around, and she knows that he has changed and grown even more because he took what she gave freely and didn't demand for more.

It almost makes her laugh: now that she might have listened to any song he sang, kept the poetry he wrote instead of returning it to him, would have enjoyed making music with him more than ever, he leaves her with no words spoken or sang but _until then_. Meaning, _until we see each other again, you and I_.

Tinweriel decides that one day, when enough time has passed that he can appreciate the irony, she will tell him that he won her over with an absence of words.

For now, however, she prepares a selection of songs she wrote while he was gone, deciding to give them to him when next they see each other, beginning to pursue now that she has accepted. Even as she crafted those songs in the quiet and privacy of her chambers she could hear the two of them playing the melodies, their instruments and voices in harmony, filling their days with music to bring each other joy. It is, after all, the way they show their love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I still know nothing of music so I apologise for any idiocies.
> 
> Thank you for reading! This is it for this story but I definitely plan on writing more stories about Makalaurë and Tinweriel. If you want to make sure you don't miss any, subscribe to the Fëanorian marriages series or even to my username.
> 
> If you want to thank me for writing this story, leave a comment of any size or shape :)

**Author's Note:**

> I also mess around on [Tumblr](http://elesianne.tumblr.com/).


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